


i'll be home for christmas

by spaceface16



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale runs the bookshop across the street and has no idea who Crowley is, Christmas, Crowley is a has-been actor who just wants to sell plants in peace, Eventual Happy Ending, Holidays, Idiots in Love, M/M, Meet-Cute, Slow Burn, this is basically a Hallmark movie in fanfic form
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-01-25 21:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceface16/pseuds/spaceface16
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley is a washed-up movie star whose second chances in the industry look like they've finally ran out. After officially announcing his retirement from acting, he purchases property in Soho and sets up a flower shop, hoping to find some semblance of peace and shelter from a life lived in the spotlight. The owner of the bookshop across the street seems to have missed out on the last thirty years or so of popular culture, and he's never heard of Crowley before.Crowley finds that concept strangely endearing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 255





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> it's the holiday season! 
> 
> this is completely self-indulgent, and i'm basically just writing the good omens hallmark movie i desperately want to see. i hope you enjoy!

It was snowing in London.

Not the pretty, delicate kind of snow that lent a bit of beauty and tranquility to the atmosphere, though, because it wasn’t cold enough for that. It was snowing the kind of snow that became slippery gray slush as soon as it hit the ground, the kind of snow that was less of an inspiration for holiday cheer and more of a general nuisance for anyone who had to venture out of doors before it melted away in full.

Anthony J. Crowley regarded the errant precipitation with a dash of bitterness as he maneuvered the Bentley (whose backseat was currently ridiculously full of flowers and plants in various types of pots) into park in front of a long stretch of Soho businesses. He really hoped the snow wasn’t an omen of some sort. That would be just his luck.

Crowley really, _really_ wanted this to work. He’d royally fucked up pretty much everything else in his life up to this point, and he wasn’t sure what he would do if something didn’t pan out soon.

Until quite recently, Crowley had been an actor. A pretty damned good one, too, he’d thought. Sure, he’d been a bit demanding, a bit full of himself, but wasn’t everyone who’d been in the industry as long as he had? Weren’t all celebrities a little arrogant, a little indulgent, a little bratty? Didn’t they all get into trouble from time to time?

Apparently, Crowley had pushed it just a little bit too far over the years. He’d known he was difficult to work with sometimes, known he wasn’t the most reliable, not the safest choice for a lot of directors out there. He’d honestly thought he made up for all that in pure talent, though.

It turns out that wasn’t quite the case.

He’d been out of work for a while, which was the consequence of a highly publicized cheating scandal and a couple stints in rehab for things Crowley would really prefer not to talk about. He was sure he’d bounce back, though, because that’s what he always did. He’d get into a spot of trouble, suffer the backlash, and then he’d punch out a killer role with rave reviews that had the public completely forgetting what it was they had previously been criticizing him for.

He had been up for the gig of a lifetime. A starring role in a film that was certain to be a huge blockbuster, with the promise of a sequel or five already lining up behind it. Crowley was more than well-off, monetarily speaking, but just looking at the pay estimate that Bee, his manager, sent him made him feel a tad nauseous.

Crowley’s resume certainly deserved the part. He knew that. If it had been the only thing in consideration, he would have snagged the job for sure.

It wasn’t, though. Of course it wasn’t. A couple months ago, Bee had called and told him the directors ended up giving the part to some nobody with ‘potential’ because they felt the fresh faces in the industry deserved a leg up every now and again. They said they wanted the part to go to someone who’d truly appreciate it.

Crowley was beside himself. He’d never even _heard_ of the guy.

Since then, Bee had offered to book him some other parts, all smaller gigs, but Crowley had declined the lot of them, saying they were beneath them and that he was offended they would even suggest he go for them.

In a shocking breach of their usual character, Bee was kind enough not to mention Crowley should probably be grateful these offers were even on the table anymore, considering his last spectacular crash and burn along with the fact that he was approaching the bad side of forty. Crowley could do an award-winning impression of Bee muttering ‘acting is a young man’s game, you know’ into a wine glass given the amount of times they’ve said it, so he really was gobsmacked when they didn’t go there this time around.

Despite his manager’s sudden burst of what (for Bee at least) could be called compassion, Crowley fell into his dark place. He stayed there for a while. A month or two, at minimum. His dark place mostly involved refusing to leave his flat (in fear that a member of the paparazzi would ask him how he felt about getting turned down for the role of the century), watching daytime television reruns like a zombie in his boxers, eating nothing but Chinese takeaway, and slowly but surely emptying his wine cabinet. He knew it could have been a lot worse, could have gotten a lot more destructive than that, so Crowley decided he wouldn’t be that sorry about it.

After a while, though, he got restless. He got bored. He got, God forbid, a bit _lonely_.

Crowley didn’t _get_ lonely. He hated people. But, during his vacation in the dark place, he’d come to the realization that he didn’t really have any friends. Or any family that didn’t hate his guts.

This revelation made him lonely in a sort of hypothetical, theoretical way. He didn’t really _want_ company, not now, but the idea that if he _did_, there wouldn’t be anyone he could talk to… That idea made him a bit sad. In a hypothetical, theoretical way, of course.

He’d briefly considered asking Bee to hang out, but he quickly decided that was out of the question when he pictured their potential reaction to that inquiry. He didn’t even want to imagine dealing with that carefully tempered mixture of disbelief, pity, and disgust. Not a chance.

In addition to the fact that he didn’t have any friends, Crowley had another, much more important realization during his time in the dark place.

He _hated_ acting. He fucking hated it. He hated the whole damn business, hated it with more passion than he’d ever felt in his entire life. He hated how fake it all was, how he had to pretend to be someone else even after the cameras stopped rolling. Ironically, Crowley had gotten into acting because he quite enjoyed pretending to be someone else. After nearly three decades of that shit, it was safe to say he didn’t feel that way anymore.

He didn’t want to go back. Not now. Not for a long, long time at the very least, and Crowley knew he didn’t have the luxury of an extended vacation unless he wanted to forfeit his whole career in the process.

As it stands, that was exactly what he decided to do. He announced his retirement from acting in a very dramatic manner via social media without consulting Bee beforehand. This resulted in Crowley receiving several furious texts and voicemails from his lovely manager that he very politely chose to ignore.

After letting Bee cool down for a week or so, Crowley gave them a call.

“This had better be fucking good, Crowley.”

The week he had waited had apparently done nothing except make them angrier.

“Hello to you too, Bee.”

“What do you want?”

He could almost hear their eyes rolling through the phone. Crowley feigned shock.

“Must I have an excuse to telephone my charming manager? Are there laws stating I can’t call you up to make casual conversation?”

“I figured you wouldn’t need a manager now that you no longer have a career to manage.”

That was a low blow even by Bee’s standards, but Crowley figured they had every right to take out a little frustration on him given the circumstances.

“Just because I’m not acting anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still need an assistant. I’ll keep you on the payroll, I swear. Won’t dock your check in the slightest.”

“Listen here, asshole, I am not your _assistant_, I am your _manager_, and- “

“Yes, yeah, whatever, either way, you’ve still got a job. And speaking of your job, I have a favor to ask you, actually.”

If people could set themselves on fire out of pure rage, Crowley is sure that’s what Bee would have been doing in this moment. After a brief pause in which Crowley was certain he could hear them grinding their teeth, Bee managed to grit out a reply.

“What is it?”

Here Crowley paused with genuine apprehension. It was a stupid idea, he’d admit, but he was starting to go a bit crazy stuck up in his flat all day, and it was the only plan he could come up with that he didn’t foresee himself absolutely hating ten years down the line. It was also extremely personal and something Crowley felt he could truly invest his emotions in at some point in the future. It was something he might actually come to care about, and he wasn’t sure which possibility was worse: that Bee would make fun of him for being an idiot, or that they would see right through his nonchalance and understand exactly how important this idea was to him. 

“I need you to see about purchasing some commercial property for me,” Crowley said, putting on the air of a man who didn’t in any way care deeply about what he was talking about.

“Some commercial- what? Are you _joking_? What the hell for?” Bee sputtered out in response.

Crowley’s dignity was still intact, so far. He decided it was safe to keep going. He redoubled his efforts to make himself sound as casual as possible.

“I’m thinking of opening a… flower shop.”

For a moment or two, Crowley was met with complete silence. He listened closely at the phone, worried briefly that Bee had actually stopped breathing. They knew that Crowley kept a good deal of plant life in his flat, but he’d never let on how much he truly enjoyed that particular hobby before. (He’d once gifted Bee a small aloe vera plant to keep in their office, but they’d rather pointedly allowed the thing to wither away to nothingness before dumping it in the trash without ceremony, so Crowley decided it was best to stick to expensive liquor on holidays and their birthday from then on.)

“A flower shop.” They sounded less than impressed, which was exactly what Crowley had expected.

“Yes.”

“You’ve abandoned your thirty-year acting career because you want to open a _flower shop_.”

Crowley dearly hoped they wouldn’t analyze it beyond that point. He could deal with disapproval on a sort of meaningless, surface level that lacked true understanding, but he wouldn’t be able to handle it if Bee got through some of his deeper psychological layers and ripped at him there. 

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m ridiculous. I don’t give a shit. Will you do it, or do I need to start looking for a new assistant?”

“_Manager_,” Bee snarled.

“Manager,” Crowley corrected.

Bee deliberated for a moment. Crowley knew that’s what they were doing, because they always deliberated very loudly, even when they were doing it inside their head.

After what seemed like a small lifetime, they let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll do it. Do you know where you want this shithole to be, or do you want me to figure that out for you?”

Ah, there it was. Sweet, dignified victory. This was exactly how Crowley had wanted this conversation to go.

“Just somewhere around London, don’t really care where. Make sure it’s a decent size, mind you, I’ve got a lot of time on my hands that I could be filling with plants and money.” Crowley had already made quite a few plans for his not-yet-existent flower shop gig. He’d really wanted to do it right, didn’t want to half-ass it like he’d been doing with pretty much everything else so far in his life. “And watch your mouth, Bee, you don’t know that it’s gonna be a shithole yet.”

A couple weeks later, Bee emailed him offers for a few different spaces, and Crowley eventually decided upon a quirky-looking spot in Soho with lots of big windows surrounded by aging red brick. It didn’t look all that welcoming, really, but that was alright. Crowley wasn’t really worried about the place being successful, seeing as he’d have more than enough money to get by even if the shop didn’t make a single cent in profit.

It had taken a few months to get everything finalized. The place was officially his come November, and it was ready to open for business after about a month of painting and arranging counters and shelves. Bee had dropped by periodically during this process because they didn’t really have anything else to do other than keep track of the shop’s financial business and deflect calls from gossip magazines asking why Crowley had decided to disappear and what, exactly, he was doing now. Bee was shocked to discover that Crowley had chosen to do most of the physical preparation of the shop himself, but they chalked that up to him being an annoying, perfectionistic micromanager and nothing more. That was good, because it meant Bee still had no idea how much Crowley genuinely cared about this little project, and he sincerely hoped it would stay that way.

Soon enough, the shop was ready to open, and Crowley found himself driving to Soho on a dreary, slush-filled Saturday morning in early December, the last of his display plants in tow. He spent the day lugging them into the freshly painted shop and making sure everything was sufficiently watered and properly arranged for his first day of business, which was to be the following Monday.

There wasn’t going to be a grand opening of any kind, because Crowley really wasn’t interested in garnering attention from the media. He just wanted to be an average, run-of-the-mill independent flower shop owner. He didn’t want any sort of ridiculous special treatment, and he certainly didn’t want paparazzi showing up unannounced, scaring away the actual customers and asking all kinds of invasive questions about his _career_ or his _plans_ or God forbid his _mental health_. He knew people would eventually catch wind that Anthony J. Crowley was running a flower shop in Soho, but he wanted to stave off that moment for as long as possible and make it as gradual and non-disruptive to his life as he could when it finally arrived.

He wanted this to work. He _needed_ this to work. He needed his work to become something he cared about, something that didn’t send him into fits of panic that ended with him making all sorts of terrible, reckless decisions. He wanted this to be something he looked forward to when he went to bed at night, wanted to wake up in the morning and happily leave his bed because he was eager to get to the shop.

He thought it could be possible. He wasn’t sure he felt _better_, not yet anyway, but he was sure he felt different already, just from setting the place up.

After his preparations were done for the day, Crowley sat down behind his brand-new checkout counter with a well-deserved cup of coffee from the lovely little place around the corner that he’d recently discovered. He gazed through his windows at the street outside, where the lights had just begun to flicker to life and the slush had finally gotten itself together to become actual snowflakes.

“Maybe I should invest in some Christmas decorations,” he muttered to himself, catching sight of the shops across the street, a few of which were already decked out in festive regalia. The bookshop on the corner was especially adorned, with strings of multicolored lights hung outside, a huge wreath that was wrapped in red and gold ribbon, and what definitely looked like a live, full-size Christmas tree in the window. Even Crowley had to admit that it was a pretty picturesque view.

He’d never been much of a festive person, but this year he thought he might actually be able to muster up some yuletide spirit. Before finishing off the last of his coffee and packing up for the day, he made a mental note to buy at least a string or two of lights, and even considered picking up some poinsettias to scatter about the shop.

It _was_ the holiday season, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! i promise aziraphale will be in the next chapter, i got a bit carried away with the exhibition because i realized there were a lot of things i wanted to say about crowley's Backstory. i would really like to have this fic finished before christmas, but i'm not sure how feasible that is considering how long i want it to be. we'll see how it goes!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ spaceface16.


	2. Chapter Two

Crowley might not have wanted any sort of advertised grand opening event to mark his first day of sales, but he was still interested in pointing out that his shop was a place that now existed. He’d taken an overly-large potted philodendron, stuck a good-sized placard reading ‘Now Open’ into the pot’s soil, and hoped that propping the front door open with it would be enough to catch the attention of passersby (the weather was mild enough that day that he felt okay leaving the plant outside, for the time being). He’d also tried to make the displays as eye-catching as possible, and he’d bought some silver and gold string lights that he then hung around the borders of the windows.

For one single moment, three glasses of wine deep on Saturday evening after he’d come home from dropping the last of the plants off, Crowley had considered purchasing a Christmas tree for the shop, but he’d quickly decided that would be a bit too holly-jolly for him.

That Saturday, basking in the glow of his minor wave of Christmas spirit, Crowley had almost felt confident about his first day in the shop. By the time Monday rolled around and he realized he had to actually show up at the place, socialize with customers, and function like a normal human being, he’d worked himself into a nervous frenzy. He’d changed his outfit four times before finally settling on a plain black button-down and his nicest pair of black jeans (he’d considered wearing his leather pants, but he’d thought those would be a bit much for his very first impression on his potential customers).

He arrived at the shop early Monday morning after chugging two cups of coffee in his flat and purchasing an additional iced latte from the coffee joint around the corner, where he’d offhandedly mentioned to the barista that he’d be opening his shop for the first time that day. Her response was surprisingly enthusiastic, and the barista told Crowley she’d stop by after her shift was over and even let other customers know about the place.

Crowley had been avoiding talking to people who recognized him for so long now that he’d made it all the way back to the shop by the time he realized why the barista had been so supportive.

He was Anthony J. Crowley. She’d be going around for the rest of the day telling customers _Anthony J. Crowley_ had opened up a flower shop around the corner.

Of course, that’s exactly what every single person who came into his shop would end up telling people, so there was no logical reason to get upset about one single individual. Still, Crowley had momentarily entertained the idea that the barista was a kind young person who wanted to help support local independent businesses, and it was disappointing to realize that this probably wasn’t the case. Of course, maybe it _was_ the case and the girl had just been an abnormally nice person, but it was still a bit of a bummer never knowing if someone was being kind to him because they had an ulterior motive of some kind, or if they just wanted to get into his good graces.

Crowley was so deep into his caffeine buzz, so distracted by his current train of thought, and so wrapped up in re-arranging a small table display of pansies that he didn’t notice the sound of his office door opening. It was ten minutes to nine, the hours Crowley’d posted on one of the windows stated that the shop was due to open at nine o’clock on Mondays, he didn’t have that much time left to make sure everything was in place, and really, _why_ did he think that this display had looked alright when he’d set it up Saturday night? It looked absolutely ridiculous and-

“Crowley.”

One of the pots Crowley had been handling dropped to the floor with a crash as he was nearly displaced from his own skin out of pure shock. He greeted the intruder with an undignified yelp before he spun around and realized it was only Bee. They snorted, looking quite amused at his little outburst, and Crowley tried to pull himself together as he went hunting for a broom and dustpan to clean up the mess on the floor.

“Jesus, Bee, don’t you think it’s a bit impolite to sneak up on people like that? How the fuck did you get in here, anyway?” Crowley located the broom and quickly started sweeping up soil and shattered pottery, hoping the flowers that had been inside would still be salvageable.

Meanwhile, Bee somehow managed to look even more unimpressed than usual.

“I came in through the back. You gave me your spare key, remember? In case of emergency?”

Crowley silently cursed himself.

“Yes, now that you mention it,” Crowley said with a grimace. “Not sure why I thought that was wise.”

“You don’t have any other friends,” Bee shot back.

Crowley sputtered. He told himself that comment didn’t dignify a response, but really he was just too jittery with nerves and overzealous caffeination to think of a clever comeback. He finished sweeping up the smashed pot and dumped it in the trash on the way to the back office, where he hurriedly re-potted the fallen pansies in a spare container, making a mental note to come back and fix them up properly later in the day. It was five minutes to nine now, and though it wasn’t as if there were people lining up outside the door waiting to get inside, Crowley still wasn’t planning on opening late on his first day of business. 

He made his way back to the front, once more re-arranging the pansy display to make it look the remaining pots didn’t have a fallen companion.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Crowley asked Bee, striving to look as smooth as possible while he attempted to fish his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans (the tightness of said jeans being the subject of more than one of Bee’s jibes at him over the years, which Crowley tried very desperately to avoid whenever possible). “Come to wish me bad luck on my first day?”

He managed to get the keys out and unlock the door before turning around to grab his philodendron doorstop and put it into place.

“Good luck, actually.” Here Bee attempted a wavering facial expression that was almost fit to be labeled a smile, and Crowley was briefly convinced he was living in some sort of twisted alternate reality. The look quickly vanished, though, and Crowley’s world promptly tilted back on its axis. “I’m sure you’ll need it.”

Crowley thought it best not to comment on the strange almost-moment they had just shared. Instead, he only shrugged and slinked behind the checkout counter.

“I’m in position. Any moment now, customers will begin to stream through that door, you’ll see.” Crowley crossed his arms, sitting back against the little stool he’d placed behind the counter and feigning nonchalance.

They waited in silence.

By 9:03, Crowley had managed to prematurely convince himself opening the shop was an awful, ridiculous idea that he should have never gone through with. He spent the next two minutes trying to decide whether or not he should just lock up the shop and tell Bee it was all an elaborate joke.

By 9:05, he’d decided that he would, in fact, be going through with the joke idea, and he’d just started to get up from his stool when somebody walked through the door. Crowley aborted his standing motion, ignoring the confused look Bee shot him as he reseated himself on the stool.

The man who had just entered the shop differed from what one would ordinarily expect from a normal customer in a store for a few distinct reasons. The first was that he was carrying a very old and somewhat large looking book underneath his arm (although he did rather look like someone who would be expected to _have_ such a book, Crowley figured, as the man looked much the stereotype of one’s average librarian; he just thought it was a bit odd for him to be toting it into a flower shop with no obvious purpose).

The second reason was that, rather than wandering around the shop and taking things in as customers typically did (especially in a shop they’d never been to before), the man was making a beeline towards the checkout counter.

_Probably sent over by the girl at the coffee shop_, Crowley thought to himself, only a tad bitterly. _Likely just wants my autograph or something. Hope he doesn’t mention anything about my quitting the business, but God, what else is there to even say_?

In the few seconds it took the man to cross the floor of the shop and make it to the counter, Crowley had managed to make himself quite a bit worked up. Even more than he already had been, which was saying something, because he hadn’t felt this nervous about anything since his early auditions, back when he was fresh out of university and hadn’t yet convinced himself he was the best in the business and refused to be told otherwise.

Despite his nerves, Crowley managed to paste on a smile and look up at the man as he came to stand before him.

“Hi there,” he said in his best professional voice, already feeling around the shelves underneath the counter for a pen he could sign something with. “What can I do for you?”

The man beamed sunnily back at him.

(And _lord_, he was quite like the sun, wasn’t he? All platinum blond hair and sparkling blue eyes and shiny-toothed smile that spread across his whole face and looked like it was lighting him up from the inside out. Crowley nearly forgot he was quietly annoyed with him for entering the shop with such an obvious purpose.)

“Hello,” the man said, his voice remarkably warm. “I own the bookshop across the street, the one on the corner?” Here the man brandished the book underneath his arm, holding it up for a moment before setting it on the counter between them. “I’d noticed someone had bought this place and I thought I’d come by with a shop-warming gift of sorts, to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Oh. _Oh_. That wasn’t what Crowley had been expecting at all. Up until just then, he’d almost thought the man would be asking him to autograph that ancient-looking book for whatever reason (yes, Crowley was aware this notion made absolutely no sense; he never claimed to be a rational being, and he was antsy at the moment besides). His brain began to rapidly shift gears to prepare him for a much different conversation than the one he’d been anticipating. He fought his tongue to find a response.

“The- uh, the book is for me, then?”

The man nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh, yes! I specialize in old and rare books, and I’ve collected quite a range of them since I started running the bookshop.” He looked down, brushing his hands over the book as if to clean away some imaginary dust. “_Beautiful Wild Flowers of America_ by Isaac Sprague and A.B. Hervey. Published in 1882. It has some very lovely illustrations. I’d seen you were opening a flower shop and thought I’d try and find something suitable to the theme on my shelves.”

Crowley felt like his jaw was on the floor. He still wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Really, that’s- _wow_, that’s incredibly generous of you.” Crowley very carefully lifted the cover, opening it up at random, if only to try and buy some time to come up with a proper response. His eyes took in a gorgeous watercolor of a purple azalea, which was accompanied by poetry and commentary on the following pages.

Crowley suddenly found himself incredibly overwhelmed. It seemed like quite a valuable (not to mention _thoughtful_) thing to be given by a complete stranger, and that was considering the fact that Crowley, given the nature of his former career, had received more gifts from strangers than he could possibly remember. It was that, combined with the way Crowley felt like he was going through a bout of mental whiplash, how he had careened without warning from being fully prepared for this person to ask something from him to being given a truly marvelous gift, one that pertained to an interest Crowley had never really shared with anyone.

“Are you certain you want to give this to me?” Crowley asked, closing the book gently and glancing up at the man with a doubting expression. “I’m sure it wasn’t cheap, given its age and everything.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, really,” the man replied, shooting him a reassuring grin. “I did the same for the young man who runs the computer repair business two doors down from you, when his shop first opened up.”

Crowley’s concern at accepting the book was somewhat soothed by this, but he still wasn’t sure.

“Really, though,” Crowley continued. “It’s such a wonderful gift, I don’t know if I can just take it from you like this.”

“Please, I insist,” Aziraphale responded, tone kind but firm. “You could think of it as a bit of an early Christmas present, if that helps at all.”

Crowley supposed he couldn’t argue any further without seeming impolite.

“Then, honestly, it’s one of the loveliest Christmas gifts I’ve ever received and- “ Here Crowley sputtered a bit, suddenly realizing that he’d been inexcusably rude without any intention to. “Jesus, I don’t even know your name!”

The man didn’t look offended by that lapse of manners in the slightest. In fact, he looked a bit sheepish himself.

“That’s perfectly alright, dear boy. I hadn’t asked for yours, either.” The man clasped his hands together and smiled graciously. “My name is Aziraphale Fell. Yours?”

_Good lord_. Crowley had a lot of things to unpack there.

First and foremost: _dear boy_. He’d been called many, many things (a lot of which being quite derogatory in nature), but never ‘dear boy’. Whatever Crowley was as a person, it was definitely the opposite of a dear boy.

Second (and this one was infinitely more important): _this man just asked what his name was_. He just asked what Crowley’s _name_ was. _Crowley’s_ name. He wondered for a moment if the man was joking, or if he was just trying to be polite. When he glanced up at the open, earnest look on his face, however, Crowley could tell the man was being completely serious.

That was… a bit weird. Unexpected, at the very least. Crowley supposed it didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t know who Crowley _was_. He’d probably seen him in movies before, didn’t know his name, and thought that would be rude to admit. He decided to let go of the thought for the time being.

Third and finally, the man’s own name was-

“I’m sorry, your first name is _Aziraphale_? What sort of a name is that?”

Aziraphale’s smile twisted into a wry, cheerily rueful grin. He was clearly used to being asked that sort of question.

“My family is, ah, quite religious, you might say. My parents wanted something that would stand out a bit. Aziraphale is one of the lesser known angels of the Bible. He was the guardian of the eastern gate of Eden.” There was a hint of chagrin to his voice, as if he were a tad embarrassed about the origin of his name and didn’t really enjoy explaining it to people.

Crowley jumped to try and put him at ease.

“Ahh, I see,” he replied with what he hoped was an apologetic yet understanding grin. “Not much for religion, myself, so I’ve got to admit I don't have a bloody clue what you’re talking about.”

Suddenly, Bee resurfaced with a cough from where they had been, up until now, zoning out while staring at a display of roses and very pointedly _not_ listening to Crowley and Aziraphale’s conversation.

“You might want to wrap this up, Crowley, it looks like you’ve got customers to see.” Bee nodded subtly toward a group of teenage kids who had gathered around the pansies and were glancing shyly in Crowley’s direction (Crowley noted with bitterness that all of them were in possession of coffee bearing the incriminating logo of the shop around the corner).

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, looking remorseful. “Oh, I’ve been imposing upon you terribly, haven’t I?”

For some reason that he couldn’t explain, Crowley suddenly became very much resistant to the thought of his new neighbor feeling guilty for taking up his time.

“Nah, not at all,” Crowley said, quickly denying Aziraphale’s claim with a shake of his head. Then, a little quieter: “To be quite honest with you, I don’t think those kids are all that interested in placing orders or anything like that. Probably just want pictures, or an autograph, or something.”

Confusion clouded Aziraphale’s face, his mouth turning slightly downward at the corners.

“Why would those young individuals be interested in getting your autograph?”

Huh. So, he really _didn’t_ know who Crowley was.

That was… that was wild, to say the least. He didn’t even know how to process it at the moment, the idea that he was currently occupying a completely blank space in a stranger’s mind for what felt like the first time in, at minimum, a decade.

Some of Crowley’s surprise must have been showing on his face because Bee caught sight of him and snorted a laugh into their hand.

“Your new neighbor here happens to be a _very famous_ actor,” Bee explained with poorly contained malicious delight. “I used to be his manager. I’m sure he’d love to tell you all about it sometime.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley shot daggers in Bee’s direction over the top of his sunglasses.

“Was. I _was_ an actor. I’m done with all that business now. Got sick of it.”

“Were you really?” Aziraphale asked. “I must admit, I don’t really keep up with popular culture these days, I get a bit too preoccupied handling the bookshop.” He paused for a moment, glancing anxiously over his shoulder at the teenagers waiting near the front of the shop, who seemed to have increased in number in the last few minutes. “I really should be going, though, they’re beginning to look rather impatient, aren’t they?”

Crowley shrugged. He didn’t want Aziraphale to go, primarily because he was currently protecting Crowley from the large group of kids that would most certainly bombard him as soon as Aziraphale walked out the door.

“They’ll probably wait all day, if they’re given the chance.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at that remark.

“Perhaps you’re right. Even so, I really do need to go and open up the bookshop. Customers waiting, and all that.” Aziraphale smoothed over some wrinkles on his coat, preparing himself to leave. “I do wish you luck with your opening day, dear boy. Feel free to stop by the bookshop any time if you have a moment to spare.”

He turned to go but stopped at the last second, finding that he had one more thing to say.

“I do feel rather silly about it now, seeing that you’re a famous actor and all, but… I still haven’t learned your name.”

“What? Oh, of course,” Crowley replied, shaking his head, feeling a bit silly himself that he’d forgotten to mention it, especially after he’d gotten Aziraphale’s name part way through their conversation. He held out his hand for Aziraphale to shake. “Anthony J. Crowley. Pleasure to meet you.”

“_Anthony J. Crowley_,” Aziraphale repeated, testing the name out in his mouth as he shook Crowley’s outstretched hand. “I really haven’t heard it before, I’m sorry to say. Sounds very professional, though. I’m sure you were a brilliant actor.”

(Crowley’s heart might have panged at that last bit, but he surely wouldn’t admit it, even to himself.)

They said their final goodbyes (which involved Crowley thanking him once again for the flower book, along with Aziraphale enthusiastically shaking Bee’s hand, something Crowley found infinitely amusing, especially given how Bee’s face clearly displayed how caught off-guard they were when he did it), and then Aziraphale left. Crowley watched him walk out the front door and across the street toward his bookshop with a hint of dismay. 

_Well, that was… That was definitely a thing_, Crowley thought to himself as he plastered on a fake smile for the teenagers that were beginning to approach the counter and whip out their phones to take photos with him.

He didn’t miss this part of fame at all. It always did make him feel a bit like a prey animal.

  
Most of the people that came into his shop that first day were only there to ask for an autograph or a selfie, but Crowley was happy to discover that some of them were actually interested in placing an order or purchasing one of the small bouquets Crowley had scattered about the shop.

Either way, he was so caught up in thinking about his interaction with his new neighbor (and how that person, not knowing who he was, had given him something Crowley would genuinely rank among the best Christmas gifts he’d ever received in his life, and that he had given it to him with no ulterior motive and no expectation for Crowley to give him something in return), he barely even cared that people kept asking him for photos, barely noticed how they kept bringing up his retirement from acting. He floated through the day on autopilot, selling flowers and signing scraps of receipts with an ease he hadn’t anticipated. He even wished a few of the customers _Merry Christmas_, a sentiment which felt odd and foreign in his mouth, but after a while he found he didn’t even mind that.

Bee had gone home about an hour after the shop opened, but not before making a few jokes about how Crowley’s ego had gotten so big he’d been rendered speechless when he was met with someone who hadn’t known who he was, which Crowley carefully neglected to respond to. He definitely wasn’t interested in explaining to Bee how he really felt about that whole situation.

Crowley closed the shop at five o’clock that evening. He walked around the shop, watering anything that needed watering and straightening up any displays that had been messed up throughout the day. He came to the checkout counter last, gathering up his things from the shelf underneath it. He shoved his wallet in his back pocket and picked up his keys before carefully lifting _Beautiful Wild Flowers of America_ from where he had placed it after Aziraphale left.

“God, I’d be a shit neighbor if I didn’t get him something in return, wouldn’t I?” Crowley muttered to himself as he exited the shop, locking the door behind him and proceeding to his car. “Got to be good, too, hasn’t it? Wouldn’t do to get him a shoddy gift, that book’s got to be worth a hundred pounds, at least.”

Crowley started the car after making sure the book was secure in the passenger seat next to him.

Although he was grumbling about suddenly feeling obligated to find a (lovely, expensive, _thoughtful_) Christmas gift for a man he didn’t even know, Crowley was, admittedly, in a pretty good mood. He’d had a moderately successful first day at the shop, the weather was behaving itself, and he’d been given a very nice book that he was pretty sure he’d be figuring out a way to display in his flat when he arrived home. He honestly wasn’t even that bothered about having to find a present for Aziraphale, because that meant he’d have an excuse to stop by the bookshop and have another chat with the man.

It felt really… freeing, knowing that he could talk to Aziraphale and not have to bring the baggage of his former job, his reputation, his embarrassing, career-annihilating failures into the conversation. Aziraphale didn’t have any preconceived notions about him, any prior judgements, because he didn’t know a single thing about him in the first place. He could get to know Crowley without any of that bullshit getting in the way. They might even become friends, as long as Aziraphale didn’t Google him or anything like that.

Hell, Aziraphale was _attractive_, too. In a warm, cozy, familiar sort of way. They’d only had one conversation and Crowley already felt kind of _comfortable_ around him. And his smile was lovely, absolutely golden. He felt a bit dizzy just remembering it now.

Maybe they could go out to dinner sometime. Maybe Crowley could ask him on a _date_-

Alright, that one was a step too far. It was a nice thought, but it wasn’t realistic for several different reasons. He didn't know if Aziraphale was even _interested_ in men, for starters, and Crowley might have renounced his fame, but he couldn’t erase himself from people’s memories. Bee had somehow been getting the paparazzi to leave him alone recently, but Crowley was sure they’d be stopping by the shop eventually, and they’d never leave him alone if they found out he was _dating_ somebody. God, what a disaster that would be.

No, it was better if he let that train of thought leave the station without him. He and Aziraphale could get to know each other, could be friends, and Crowley could have someone to talk to that didn’t know anything about his fucked up, burnt down past.

As he parked the Bentley on the street outside his flat, Crowley found himself wondering if Aziraphale would enjoy a bottle of particularly fine wine, if he liked music, and if he would consider a box set of every cheesy, low-budget action film in which Crowley had played the villain amusing, or if he’d think that was in poor taste.

Whatever Crowley did, he _definitely_ couldn’t give the man a book. That would just be pathetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! the book aziraphale gives crowley is a real, actual book, and if you wanted to take a peek at it, you could do so here: https://archive.org/details/BeautifulWildFlowersOfAmerica
> 
> i really appreciated all the comments on chapter one, you guys are so sweet and i'm so glad people are enjoying the fic!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ spaceface16.


	3. Chapter Three

By the time Crowley got to the shop on Tuesday morning (armed with a large black coffee that he purchased from a place which was _not_ the coffee shop around the corner, because he was now boycotting them indefinitely despite their convenient proximity), he still hadn’t managed to think of a suitable gift for his new neighbor. 

He’d looked through _Beautiful Wild Flowers of America_ thoroughly on Monday night and discovered it was even more lovely than the cursory glance he’d given it had suggested. The book was genuinely gorgeous, and that was wonderful, but it also meant whatever Crowley gave Aziraphale in return had to be that much more wonderful, too.

The primary issue was that he didn’t really know anything _about_ Aziraphale, aside from how he owned a bookshop and came from a family so religious his parents had thought it would be clever to name him _Aziraphale_. He’d clearly chosen Crowley’s gift based on the nature of Crowley’s shop, which was an obvious enough thing to do, but Crowley couldn’t very well give Aziraphale some kind of plant _about_ books, now, could he?

No, that was a stupid, ridiculous idea. Crowley was embarrassed that the thought had even crossed his mind, especially after his Google searches for ‘plants about books’ and ‘book plants’ turned up nothing but an excess of plant-themed literature. (Honestly, how could he have expected to get actual results from those search queries? And he called himself a gardener.)

After his brief bout of researching failed him, Crowley had spent the rest of Monday night distractedly scrolling through his Twitter feed, where he’d discovered that people were indeed talking about his new business venture.

“Well that’s going to make tomorrow _very_ fun and exciting, now, isn’t it?” Crowley had muttered to himself, pausing his scrolling to take a very large sip from his wine glass. “I better not have to invest in bloody _security_ for the place. Thought I was done with all that nonsense.”

Crowley had been hoping, in vain and lacking any emotion akin to confidence, that this new project of his would manage to fly underneath the radar somehow. For a while, at least. He supposed he should have picked a place way out in the countryside if he had really wanted his shop to stay out of the public eye. He had, of course, known that all along, but he _liked_ London and figured he’d probably even lonelier in the country than he was in the city.

Not that he _was_ lonely. No, of course not. London was chock-full of people, anyway. Even when he was holed up in his flat by himself, he was surrounded by the rhythm and noise of the rest of humanity living their lives all around him. And he had Bee, who could be a real pain in the ass sometimes but was still a good person to have around in a pinch. They were dependable, and they didn’t put up with Crowley’s melodramatic bullshit, which was a necessary quality in any friend of his.

So, it followed that Crowley _wasn’t_ lonely. Not in the slightest.

Crowley was _definitely_ not lonely when he pulled up in front of his shop at a quarter to nine on Tuesday morning and found a considerable crowd of people mulling around outside.

“_Shit_,” Crowley swore, pinching the bridge of his nose in pained dismay. He squinted at the crowd through the window of his car while he fumbled for his phone in the passenger seat. He could see that a few people with professional cameras were near the door of the shop, snapping photos and pointing at things through the windows.

Crowley punched at a number in his contacts and raised the phone to his ear. His call was answered on the first ring.

“About time you showed up,” Bee grumbled in place of a greeting. “I can see your car outside, was just about to call you.”

“You’re here?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I anticipated this sort of thing happening, figured you might need some help.”

Crowley wasn’t sure he’d ever been more grateful for Bee’s existence than he was in that moment.

“I can deal with the crowd, I suppose, but can you get the paparazzi to fuck off? I’m really not interested in talking to them.”

“I’ll try my best. In the meantime, you should drive around the block and come in through the back office. I’m honestly not sure why you didn’t just do that in the first place.”

Crowley wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thought to do that either, so he decided he’d do what he was told without making a fuss. By the time he’d gotten around the block and into the building, Bee had opened the front door and somehow managed to shoo away the paparazzi.

This particular skill was Crowley’s favorite thing about Bee, and the reason they’d been his manager for so long. He had no idea how they were able to keep those hounds away from him almost all of the time or get them to go away when they figured out his location. Crowley got the sense it somehow involved threats of an incredibly illegal and violent nature, so he thought it best that he just didn’t ask.

Although Bee had gotten rid of the paparazzi in spectacular time, there were still floods of people coming in and out of the shop the entire day (most of them not purchasing anything, so Crowley did not grace them with the word ‘customer’ in his mind). He found out that a few celebrity news websites had published articles containing both pictures of the shop and its address. When he told Bee this, a stony, murderous glare came across their face and they proceeded to shut themselves up in the back office while they made several tense phone calls that Crowley tried not to hear.

By the end of the day, Bee had convinced the websites to remove the shop’s address from their articles, but the damage had already been done. The shop was absolutely packed for the entire day, and Crowley felt more like he’d been in an eight-hour meet and greet rather than running a store.

He did his best to act cheerful and kind for all the fans who wanted pictures with him (because, really, they couldn’t be blamed for taking the opportunity to meet a world-famous movie star when they knew exactly where he would be, especially when Crowley was a big enough idiot to allow something like that to happen), but by the time five o’clock rolled around, he was feeling pretty worn out. Also, the shop had been so crowded that he’d never gotten the chance to grab lunch, so he was quite peckish on top of everything else.

When he ushered the last of the people out of the store, he was barely hanging onto the last thread of his polite façade. He shooed them down the sidewalk with a smile that probably looked more maniacal than friendly, and then he stood outside the shop for a moment to make sure they actually left and didn’t just hang around outside waiting for Crowley to come out again.

Once he was sure they had gone, he turned to go back into the shop and lock up for the night. Before he could open the door, however, a voice from across the street caught his attention. He looked around and eventually caught sight of his new neighbor standing in the doorway of his bookshop, illuminated by the Christmas lights strung up around his windows and waving cheerily at Crowley. Aziraphale was holding a mug of something hot in one of his hands, and Crowley could see it steaming in the brisk evening air from all the way across the street.

Crowley waved back, feeling his stress and weariness ease back just a tad at the sight of Aziraphale looking so chipper. For a moment, Crowley was caught up thinking about how unapologetically _cozy_ Aziraphale’s little shop looked over there, all golden yellow light and scattered, pine-inspired holiday decorations. He’d bet that it was toasty warm inside, and that it probably smelled of old books and rich wood. It occurred to him that he should turn around and go back inside his own shop before he got too wrapped up in the mental picture he was painting for himself.

He was about to do just that when he realized Aziraphale was shouting something to him from across the street.

“What?”

Aziraphale repeated himself. He was far enough away that, though Crowley could definitely hear that his neighbor was saying _something_ to him, he couldn’t quite make out what it was.

“What?” Crowley called, a little louder this time. Aziraphale started again. Crowley squinted, trying to read his lips. It didn’t do him any good.

“_What_?” Crowley shouted for the third time, and Aziraphale seemed to realize that trying to relay his message in this manner would be futile. He crossed the street quickly, nodding his thanks to a car that slowed down so he could pass in front of it.

“My apologies, dear boy,” he said when he reached Crowley. Aziraphale fidgeted, the hand not holding his steaming mug coming up to worry at the top button on his tan, worn-looking waistcoat. “I was only trying to ask how the first few days in your shop had gone. You’ve looked pretty busy over here, from what I’ve seen.”

An expression of exhausted amusement passed over Crowley’s face. He tried politely to scale back the bitterness he was feeling so it wouldn’t show through too badly.

“Hah, yeah, you could say that.” Crowley let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “The internet figured out that I was running this place and it’s been absolutely flooded with people all day. The paparazzi showed up this morning and everything. It’s been a bit of a shitshow, really. Not sure why I thought it would turn out any other way.”

Apparently, Crowley had underestimated the level of bitterness that was currently flowing through his veins, because it had shone through loud and clear despite his attempt to cover it up. Aziraphale’s face became earnestly remorseful, his eyebrows furrowing and the corners of his mouth turning down into a gentle frown.

“Oh, dear, that’s a shame. I was very much hoping you’d find yourself at home here. I do try my best to make the neighborhood seem welcoming when new people move in.”

Without warning, Crowley experienced an inexplicable wave of something akin to jealousy at the thought of Aziraphale providing his lovely, motiveless kindness to people that weren’t him. He tried to dismiss the feeling as quickly as possible, seeing as it was completely illogical, unwarranted, and undeserved. Of course the man was nice to everybody. It was good that Aziraphale was nice to everybody, because otherwise that would make him just the same as all the other people who were nice to Crowley because of who he was. That was exactly the opposite of what Crowley wanted.

His wave of nonsensical jealousy didn’t last all that long anyway, because it was rapidly replaced with guilt for putting that crestfallen look on Aziraphale’s face.

Crowley immediately started backpedaling.

“Well, I mean, it’s not like it’s the _neighborhood’s_ fault, is it? Neighborhood’s perfectly fine, it’s the people flocking in from all over London to ask me for a bloody photograph that’s the trouble, and that’s my own fault, really. I like the neighborhood, and you’ve been more than welcoming, so there’s no need to worry about that.”

Crowley breathed an inner sigh of relief when he saw his neighbor’s face brighten back up.

“Well, I’m glad you think so, but I am still sorry you’ve been having a rough time of it,” said Aziraphale, before pausing briefly and sucking in a deep breath. “You could- You could join me for a drink back at the bookshop, if you think that might put a bit of a balm on your day. I was just closing up, anyway.”

Crowley took a moment to consider the offer. He glanced up at the bookshop over Aziraphale’s shoulder and was once again struck with thoughts about how lovely the place probably was inside. Besides, Crowley had been searching for an excuse to have another conversation with his new neighbor, and this seemed like the perfect way to make that happen without it being awkward or forced. He did feel a bit bad for not having come up with a gift for him yet, though, and he definitely didn’t want to impose upon Aziraphale if he had been about to go home.

“A drink sounds nice, really nice, actually, but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Crowley said, his right hand coming up to anxiously tug at the hair on the back of his head. “If, y’know, you were all finished up over there and getting ready to head out.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Aziraphale replied with a chuckle. “But there’s no need to worry about my commute home. I’ve actually got a flat right above the bookshop.”

“Oh, wow, you live there?”

Aziraphale nodded and took a delicate sip from the mug he had carried with him across the street.

_Well, that simplifies things_, Crowley supposed. No reason to say no now. He tried not to trip over himself saying yes too eagerly.

“Ah, well, uh- let me just run back into my shop to get a few last things sorted really quickly, and then I guess I’ll meet you over at yours? If you really don’t mind.”

“Oh, good! No, it’s no trouble at all,” Aziraphale chimed back, looking quite pleased. Crowley forced himself not to read into that too closely (_He’s this nice to everybody, don’t you dare forget that_).

“So, I’ll- I’ll see you in a minute, then?” Crowley asked.

“Yes! See you in a minute.” Aziraphale shot him a smile and a little wave before heading back across the street.

Crowley darted back into his shop, turning around to lock the door once he crossed over the threshold.

Before he could even begin to wrap his head around the sudden upward turn his day had started to take, he heard Bee calling out behind him, the amusement laced through their voice providing a minor but noticeable increase in expression from their usual disinterested tone.

“Got a thing for the librarian, then, do you? Didn’t think he’d be your type.”

Crowley sputtered and dropped his keys. He hastened to pick them up and tried not to look too guilty while he did it.

“First of all, he’s not a _librarian_, he only _sells_ books. Secondly, and this is the more important bit, I’ve got absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Crowley started to walk around the shop and straighten things up, if only for something to do with his hands while Bee was talking to him.

“Oh, come off it. I saw you out there, you looked like an absolute nervous wreck. I don’t know how you made it as an actor when you’re that bloody obvious. I could tell you wanted to shag the guy from five metres away.”

Crowley was reeling so hard from Bee’s final comment that he failed to be upset by the mention of his now-abandoned acting career.

“I- But- _No_, you couldn’t.” He had turned to face Bee from across the shop, his mouth hanging open in affront. “Could you?”

Crowley chose not to analyze the fact that he had just readily admitted something to Bee that he had not, as of yet, admitted to himself. Or even allowed himself to think about, really.

It was true, though. It was _very_ true. The man looked like an angel. He seemed to act like one, too, which was somehow even more striking to Crowley. Was it because he hadn’t experienced sincere kindness from another human being in what felt like decades? Maybe. That was another thing that Crowley really didn’t want to analyze, though.

“What were you two even talking about out there, anyway? You seemed like you were about to have a fainting spell.” Bee paused, their eyebrows raising just enough to make their feigned scandalization apparent. “He wasn’t flirting with you, was he? I’ll be honest, the man doesn’t look like he’s had an impure thought in his life. And didn’t he say his family was super religious or something like that?”

There were still way too many wild thoughts buzzing around inside Crowley’s head for him to properly respond to all of Bee’s questions.

“Ngk- Christ, we weren’t _flirting_, Bee. Honestly. He saw me across the street, came over to say hello and could tell I was stressed out by all the shit that happened earlier today, and he asked me if I wanted to come over to his shop for a drink. Which, if you don’t mind, I should hurry up and do now so I don’t keep him waiting any longer.”

Crowley had finished straightening up, so he gathered some of his things from behind the counter before shutting off the front room’s overhead lights and making his way to the back office for the rest of his stuff. Bee trailed along after him, getting their things together as well. They didn’t respond to his explanation of his and Aziraphale’s conversation, but Crowley could tell from their condescending expression that nothing he’d said had altered their opinion whatsoever.

They both walked through the back door, out into the chilly evening air. Once Crowley had locked the door, he headed towards his car, deciding he’d drive over and park out in front of Aziraphale’s shop to make things easier for himself later on.  
Bee’s beat-up black Mini Cooper was parked directly in front of the Bentley. Crowley looked over at them once more before he got into his car.

“Thanks for dealing with all that shit today, Bee. I owe you one.”

“It’s literally my job. You don’t owe me anything but a paycheck.”

Crowley shrugged.

“Yeah, well, thanks anyway.”

“Whatever. Don’t do anything stupid tonight, Crowley. If the paps catch wind that you’re involved with somebody, they’ll be on you like flies on shit. And I’ll be the one who’ll have to deal with the aftermath.”

“Jesus, for the last time, I’m not _involved_ with him. We’re having one drink together, and then I’m going home.” Crowley rubbed at his temple, the shit day he’d had coming back to mix with his current conversation and drumming up a stress headache at the front of his skull. “And, anyway, I have no reason to believe he’s interested in me at all. He’s just a good person. He’s nice to everyone. And I’ve only known him for two days, Christ sakes. This is ridiculous.”

Bee looked doubtful.

“I’m not so sure, Crowley. He was smiling at you awfully keenly, dunno if you’d noticed.”

Crowley’s heart raised its weary head with sudden hope, and he sent Bee a sharp look from behind his shades.

“_Don’t_ encourage me.”

Bee raised their palms in mocking supplication.

“Alright, alright. I’ll shut up. You’d better get going, anyway. Like you said, you don’t want to keep him waiting.” With that, they ducked into their car and drove off before Crowley could get another word in.

Crowley sat down hard in the front seat and put his head in his hands for a moment before he started the engine.

“_Christ_. This is going to be an absolute disaster, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've come to realize that this fic is almost definitely not going to be finished before christmas but that's okay because i'm still gonna update regularly after christmas is over (because the holiday season is the best season and honestly it _should_ be year-round if you ask me). 
> 
> thank you all again for the kudos and the lovely comments!
> 
> i'm on tumblr @ spaceface16.


	4. Chapter Four

Crowley found that the inside of Aziraphale’s bookshop was pretty much exactly how he’d been picturing it.

It was a labyrinth of overflowing bookshelves, crowded in a way that somehow managed to feel more comforting than chaotic, and it was cozily warm, which Crowley very much appreciated, as his body had the tendency to become fiercely, intensely cold with no warning whatsoever.

The shop smelled more strongly of musty old books than anything else, but it also smelled of pine from the Christmas tree and some sort of pleasant, earthy spiciness that he couldn’t quite identify.

Crowley paused to look at the Christmas tree in the front window as Aziraphale locked up, peering closely at the brightly colored baubles that were scattered across its branches. The tree appeared to be decorated with Aziraphale’s own personal ornaments. Some were engraved with different dates and occasions, and some were depictions of traditional Christian holiday scenes. Crowley briefly considered making a joke regarding the angel figurine sitting at the top of the tree and the origin of Aziraphale’s name, but he decided against it because he didn’t know Aziraphale well enough to tell if he would find it funny or offensive.

It struck Crowley as odd, though, that Aziraphale didn’t seem to have any cutesy literature-themed ornaments, considering how obviously passionate he was about the subject. If Crowley was the kind of person to own Christmas ornaments (he very much wasn’t, but that wasn’t the point), he’s sure he would curate them solely on aesthetic value and his various interests, none of which even came close to matching the enthusiasm Aziraphale had for books.

A good idea began rising to the surface of Crowley’s brain, but its ascent was interrupted by Aziraphale clearing his throat behind him.

“So, Anthony, how do you feel about red wine?”

Crowley didn’t answer, but instead turned and looked at Aziraphale with his mouth half open and his eyebrows raised. Aziraphale laughed nervously.

“Ah, of course, if you’d prefer something stronger, I could- “

“Did you just call me Anthony?”

Crowley’s cheeks were betraying him, burning three shades redder than his hair. All of his acquaintances in the movie industry had called him by his last name, and that included the people he’d vaguely thought of as his friends. Calling him _Anthony_ was a privilege reserved for his family or the occasional lover, and Crowley hadn’t interacted with anyone falling under either of those umbrellas in an unspeakably long time.

“I- That _is_ your name, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked, wide-eyed, before Crowley could regain his ability to speak. “Oh goodness, don’t tell me I’ve misremembered it. I’m so sorry, I really thought- “

“No, no, it is! It is,” Crowley said once he managed to shake himself out of his daze and come up with a response. “It’s just that nobody really ever calls me that. I usually go by my last name, by Crowley. Took me by surprise, is all.”

“Oh, alright, I see.” Aziraphale breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Good lord, for a moment there I thought that I’d completely forgotten your name! How silly of me. Crowley it is, then.”

Crowley paused for a moment to consider the strange feeling of emptiness that had suddenly started to make itself at home inside his chest.

Most of the time, he was satisfied (_comforted_, even) by the emotional distance that came from others referring to him by his last name. It was one of the (highly effective) barriers he used to keep people away when he knew they would probably turn on him as soon as he stepped a toe out of line, as soon as he made another highly publicized mistake and everyone unanimously decided they didn’t want to be associated with him anymore.

That island-like philosophy was starting to lose its appeal, however. Crowley’s life was different now (if one didn’t count the paparazzi continuing to hound him like the bloodthirsty bastards they were), and his career wasn’t completely hinged on whether or not he maintained a respectable image. He was free to do pretty much whatever he liked.

That included becoming emotionally attached to people, if he so chose.

Not that he was planning on getting _emotionally attached_ to Aziraphale. He just thought that maybe it would be nice to have the option available, now that he felt like he could.

So, in the newfound spirit of doing whatever the hell he wanted, Crowley decided to go for it.

“You can call me Anthony, though,” He managed to spit out, anxiously mussing up his hair. “If you- if you like.”

An unreadable expression flickered across Aziraphale’s face at Crowley’s words, which made Crowley momentarily fear that he’d blundered across some sort of boundary he hadn’t yet noticed. Then, after a beat, Aziraphale gave Crowley a reassuring smile.

“I’d be glad to,” Aziraphale replied, before gently adding, “Anthony.”

There was a beat of silence where the pair did nothing but look at each other warmly. It wasn’t exactly awkward, Crowley noticed, but it was charged with something he couldn’t identify and that made his hands begin to sweat with a markedly different sort of anxiety than he’d felt a minute before.

Crowley broke the silence with an attempt to distract from how he was once again blushing furiously.

“And uh, yeah, I’m a fan of red wine. That sounds lovely.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaimed, a bit louder than he’d probably intended to. Crowley observed with a hint of satisfaction that Aziraphale looked about as flustered as Crowley felt. “Upstairs we go, then.”

They made their way towards the back of the shop, Aziraphale winding through the maze of shelves with practiced ease and Crowley trailing along after him.

Aziraphale’s back room, Crowley saw once they reached it, was low-lit and furnished by a little antique desk cluttered with books and papers, a dark brown leather couch, a cozy-looking armchair with a throw blanket draped across it, and plenty more overfilled bookshelves (_Aziraphale’s personal collection_, Crowley presumed, and made a mental note to look closer at these shelves in particular at some point in the near future, if he got the chance).

Crowley quickly concluded that he adored the space (in spite of the fact that it was messy and chaotic and fundamentally clashing with Crowley’s decidedly minimalistic sense of design), and that the sofa looked particularly comfortable.

He wasn’t able to linger there for very long, however, because Aziraphale had already begun climbing up the little staircase that was nestled away in one corner of the room, and Crowley was developing a slight irrational fear that he’d get lost somewhere among the books if he didn’t immediately follow.

“I must say again how terribly sorry I am that you had such a stressful time today,” Aziraphale said as they reached the landing and entered the flat proper. “I hope that it starts to get better from here on out. I’d hate for you to end up deciding to close your store because of all that.”

“Eh, it wasn’t so bad,” said Crowley. “Not enough to make me close up shop, anyway. I’ve dealt with much worse, believe me.”

This was…sort of a lie. Crowley’s day had actually been truly, deeply draining, but he didn’t want to give Aziraphale the impression that he was some sort of rich, famous, spoiled asshole who couldn’t handle receiving a little praise and attention from the fans who supported him now and again.

“I guess the only real issue I had today,” Crowley continued, “was that I had to work straight through lunch.”

“You mean you haven’t eaten?” Aziraphale looked scandalized. “You must be famished. Let me find you something to eat.”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t have to do that,” Crowley implored. He hadn’t meant to make Aziraphale feel obliged to provide food for him. “I’ll be alright. You’ve already invited me up for a drink, I’d feel like I was imposing if you had to make me dinner, too.”

“It’s not an imposition at all, Anthony. I insist. I haven’t had dinner yet either, so you won’t be eating alone, don’t worry about that.”

Aziraphale started making his way down the hall without waiting for a response, and Crowley was once again overwhelmed by the seemingly effortless generosity that his neighbor displayed. He followed Aziraphale in silence, focused on the thought that no one had ever, ever treated him this kindly before. Not without wanting something in return.

For one moment, Crowley tried to convince himself that maybe Aziraphale did want something in return, that he’d been deceiving him this whole time, but it just didn’t feel right. Aziraphale seemed too nice for that. And not too nice in a negative way, but instead so incredibly kind that Crowley thought it couldn’t possibly be insincere.

“Do you like pasta?” Aziraphale asked once they reached the kitchen. “I’ve got some leftover chicken alfredo here that we could split.” He removed a container from the fridge and opened it for Crowley’s consideration.

“Did you make that yourself? Looks delicious.”

“Oh, goodness, no,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m flattered you presumed so, but I’m afraid I’m not all that skilled in the cooking department. It’s actually from a lovely little Italian restaurant a few blocks from here. It’s quite nice, I recommend you try it out if you get the chance.”

The idea of going on a dinner date with Aziraphale suddenly popped into his mind, and Crowley had to try very hard to make it go away. That concept was quite clearly against the mental rules Crowley had come up with, the ones that had arisen in response to his premonition that even a hint of romantic involvement with Aziraphale would be absolutely disastrous for any kind of friendship they could potentially have.

Crowley thought it a bit ridiculous that he’d known Aziraphale for less than two days and he was already having to hold himself back like an overexcited, lovesick puppy. He might have been doing pretty well at tossing out those romantic thoughts once they entered his mind, but that didn’t mean very much compared to the frequency he’d been having to do so since he first spoke to Aziraphale the morning before. It just made it harder that the thoughts were particularly warm and lovely ones, involving candlelight and string music and chocolate-themed desserts, and he was desperately trying to get rid of them the way sailors in sinking ships frantically tossed buckets of water overboard while trying to stay afloat. 

Aziraphale spent a few minutes reheating their pasta on the stove, while Crowley agreed to slice and butter a few pieces of fresh bread for them to have on the side.

“The flat’s rather small, so I’m sorry to say I can’t actually fit a dining table up here,” Aziraphale lamented once their meal was prepared and a bottle of wine had been selected. The pair had settled on Aziraphale’s living room sofa, which Crowley didn’t find bothersome in the slightest, seeing as most of his meals were taken on his own couch at home. He didn’t admit that to Aziraphale, though, because the man seemed to disapprove of that configuration. Instead, Crowley occupied himself by trying to ignore his hunger and not devour his food in a single bite like a snake.

“I swear that I do own a dining table,” Aziraphale continued after taking a neat, mannerly bite of his own pasta. “It just isn’t here. I have a house. A cottage, actually.”

Crowley was impressed. Aziraphale owned his own business, the flat above it, and a house as well? The bookselling game must be more lucrative than he’d thought.

“Where’s your cottage at?” He asked.

“The South Downs. That’s where I grew up, actually. A lot of my family still live there.”

Aziraphale’s naturally chipper demeanor seemed to falter slightly, though he didn’t do anything after he finished speaking except take a sip of wine and consider his pasta quietly.

Crowley supposed there was more to that story than Aziraphale had said, especially since his family had been brought up yesterday as well, and he’d seemed a tad uncomfortable talking about it then, too.

He spent a moment debating the merits of sating his curiosity and asking about it versus letting the matter rest and avoiding a potentially awkward discussion. In the end, Crowley decided to ask, because he was nothing if not an expert in the creation of uncomfortable social situations (and because he figured Aziraphale was too lovely and polite to let their conversation become truly unbearable, even if Crowley did bungle it up).

“What made you decide to move to London, then?” He probed, aiming to make the question sound casual, as if it hadn’t been thought about and thoroughly calculated beforehand.

Aziraphale worried his lip for a bit and took another sip from his wine glass before answering the question.

“My family is very close-knit, you see. And I care for them dearly, I do, I just… I really felt like I needed to get away from there and live my life for myself without quite so much of their influence. So, I moved here.”

“Yeah, I know how that feels. Done my fair share of trying to get away from things.”

Crowley might not have known what it felt like to be close to his family, but he sure as hell knew what it felt like to want to be as far away from them as possible.

Aziraphale stayed quiet for a while, his eyebrows gently furrowed as if he was slightly conflicted.

“Well, this isn’t a very cheerful conversation topic, is it?” Aziraphale said after a beat. “Forgive me. I didn’t invite you over with the intention of bringing you down. Especially after the sort of day you’ve had.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s a perfectly acceptable conversation.” Crowley had begun to realize that Aziraphale’s seemingly bottomless spirit of giving might actually be a bit of a problem for him, if it meant he didn’t get relief from his own burdens now and again. “You don’t accept help from other people very often, do you?”

Aziraphale looked like he was about to refute that statement, but then, to Crowley’s satisfaction, he admitted it.

“No, I suppose I don’t,” he replied with a sigh, sinking down a little into the overstuffed sofa.

“Well,” Crowley continued, hoping he sounded convincingly assertive, “I’ve had quite enough of thinking about my own issues for one day, and you’ve been kinder to me since yesterday than anyone else has been in a very long time. I think you deserve to let me lend an ear to your problems, at least for the evening. What do you say?”

As he spread his arms out in a prompting, expectant gesture, it occurred to Crowley that asking Aziraphale to do something for his own benefit was, at least in Aziraphale’s eyes, probably a bit like playing devil’s advocate. Regardless, Crowley really hoped it would work.

“Alright,” Aziraphale seemed to concede. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. But really, though, it’s not necessary, and- “

“No, too late, you’ve already agreed,” Crowley interrupted, victorious, a cat-like, satisfied grin plastered across his face. “You’re now contractually obligated to unload your troubles on my shoulders.”

“Fine, fine,” said Aziraphale, with a small, self-conscious smile of his own. “But I do think I might need to be a bit more intoxicated in order to do that.”

  
“So, has moving here really been freeing for you? Has it actually worked?” Crowley asked several glasses of wine later, after Aziraphale had talked in further detail about his family and the circumstances leading up to his relocation to London.

Crowley felt pleasantly tipsy, and he’d come to the conclusion that he and Aziraphale had a lot more in common than he’d previously thought. They were both running from something. Aziraphale was running from his overbearing family, and Crowley was running from… literally his entire life before a couple of weeks ago.

Aziraphale had basically made the same choice that Crowley did, setting up shop here in Soho, except far less recently. Crowley had been wondering if he’d made the right decision by coming here, and he realized that Aziraphale might hold the answer to that question.

“Well,” Aziraphale started, swirling the contents of his wine glass in contemplation. “I’ve only been here about… three years or so? But so far, it really has been. Freeing, that is. I’m, ah, I’m gay, you see. My family knows, and they’re nice enough about it, they do their best to try and be supportive, but I can tell it makes them uncomfortable. I care for them, of course I do, but it’s easier for me to live my life with a bit of distance from them.”

Crowley could tell it had been a little difficult for Aziraphale to come out to him right then, which was ironic considering that was exactly what Crowley had been hoping to hear for the past couple of days. There was no way he could admit that to Aziraphale, though, so he decided to go for an empathetic anecdote instead.

“You can say that again. When my family found out I was bisexual, they were mortified. Didn’t even find out from me. I got caught making out with a guy at a club and it was plastered all over the tabloids the next day. My mother was fine with it, but my father hasn’t spoken to me since. I mean, my mother doesn’t speak to me anymore either, but that’s not because I’m into guys.”

Crowley finished off his comment with an awkward laugh, but Aziraphale had a look of genuine heartbreak on his face.

“Oh, goodness, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

Alright, so maybe that had been a little more personal and depressing than Crowley was aiming for. Whoops.

“Eh, it was years and years ago. It doesn’t really bother me anymore,” Crowley said, trying to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal. (It was. Or, at least, it had been a long time ago. Less because of his parents and more because of the whole world finding out at the same time without his permission).

Crowley paused for a moment to drain his glass a final time before setting it aside on Aziraphale’s coffee table next to the empty wine bottle, and another thought occurred to him.

“It’s kind of strange, y’know. Having to explain my history to someone. Usually people know all this stuff before they even meet me.”

Aziraphale looked bashful.

“I’m a bit behind the times, I’m afraid. I don’t even have a cell phone. I feel rather silly not knowing anything about you, considering you’re a big shot actor and all.”

“No, don’t feel silly,” Crowley protested. “I haven’t been able to have someone get to know me on my own terms in a very long time. It’s refreshing, really.” Crowley was suddenly struck with the mortifying possibility that Aziraphale could Google him, and he felt it was urgent to try and prevent it.

“And don’t go looking me up on the internet, whatever you do,” Crowley said, wagging his finger at Aziraphale pointedly. “You won’t like what you find, I promise.”

“Oh, please. You seem perfectly lovely to me.”

Crowley scoffed at that, which earned him a frown from Aziraphale.

“You do!” Aziraphale continued, hiccupping slightly. “Besides, I’m sure you haven’t done anything all that terrible. And even if you have, everyone makes mistakes. It’s a flaw of our society nowadays that there’s so much focus on the blunders one may have committed in the past.”

A laundry list of public scandals and personal failures raced to the forefront of Crowley’s mind. Everyone might make mistakes, but he’s sure that he’s made far too many to be able to use that excuse.

“Honestly, Aziraphale, that little anecdote about how everyone found out my sexuality isn’t even the half of it. One time I- “

“No, stop right there. I don’t even want to know.” It was the most commanding, forceful thing Aziraphale had said since Crowley had met him, and however tipsy he might have been, he felt compelled to listen. “Like you said before, I’m one of the few people with the ability to get to know you on your terms. Let me do that, Anthony. You have no obligation to put your darkest moments on display for me.”

Crowley had no idea what to say to that. On one hand, it was possibly the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to him. On the other, he wasn’t sure if he could even believe it was true.

Usually, he would brush off any sort of heartfelt, meaningful comment like that with a joke and move on with the conversation. Right now, though… right now he felt warm and comfortably intoxicated, and Aziraphale was looking at him with those earnest, welcoming, ridiculously blue eyes, and for once in his life, Crowley didn’t feel like he had to put up a wall between himself and the rest of the world.

He felt _safe_ with Aziraphale, he realized, which was surprising and a little strange considering how incredibly recently he’d met the man. Crowley didn’t know if it was a lapse of judgement on his part or if Aziraphale was actually just that openly trustworthy of a person, but he sincerely hoped that it was the latter.

He was drawn to Aziraphale in a way he’d never felt with anyone else. Crowley had been with other people romantically before, of course, but it had always felt empty in some way, most likely because he wasn’t willing to fully open up to them out of fear and lack of trust. With Aziraphale, although he barely knew him, he already felt quite a bit differently than that. Was it only because he didn’t know who Crowley was, didn’t know about his past, or was it something deeper?

Either way, it was something he was going to have to keep a very close eye on, because regardless of how he felt, there was no way Crowley could let his interactions with Aziraphale progress into any sort of relationship beyond friendship. If he did, and if anyone ever found out about it, Aziraphale’s life would be permanently altered. The media would never leave him alone, not to mention the fact that Aziraphale’s family probably wouldn’t be too happy to see their son’s sexuality broadcasted to the entire world.

Aziraphale probably wasn’t even interested in him anyway. Crowley assumed that he wasn’t his type. He was all darkness and angst and questionable decisions, and Aziraphale was soft and kind and so far removed from the world Crowley lived in that he really didn’t even know it existed.

It was for the best that Crowley kept his distance, no matter how much he felt like he would be happier if he managed to get closer.

Speaking of getting closer, it was at that point Crowley realized he’d been silent for a while and unconsciously leaning towards Aziraphale while he followed his previous train of thought through to its conclusion. He was still looking into Aziraphale’s eyes, and it actually looked like Aziraphale was leaning closer as well.

In fact, it seemed as though they were about to kiss. Aziraphale’s eyes were starting to flutter shut and everything.

“I- I should go,” Crowley said abruptly, much louder than he’d meant to, rocketing backwards to the arm of the sofa without a hint of grace. “It’s getting late, and we’ve both got to work in the morning.”

Aziraphale startled and pulled himself back awkwardly, looking away from Crowley. A cloud seemed to pass over his eyes, making them seem less open than they had a moment ago.

“Of course,” he replied, rising from the sofa and gathering their discarded dishes from the coffee table. “I apologize for keeping you so long. I’m sure you’re very tired.”

“Oh, yeah, I really am knackered. Long day, you know.” Crowley said stiffly, standing up as well and following Aziraphale into his kitchen. “Thanks again for dinner, though. It was lovely.”

“My pleasure,” Aziraphale said, depositing their dishes in the sink and giving Crowley a tight-lipped smile, which seemed to be slightly strained. “Let me walk you out.”

Aziraphale led Crowley downstairs and to the front door of the book shop. Crowley got into his car, waved him goodbye, and waited until he was sure Aziraphale had made his way back into the shop before putting his head in his hands against the steering wheel and letting out a frustrated groan.

“I can’t believe I messed that up so badly,” Crowley muttered. “I’m an idiot. I’ll never be able to look him in the eyes again, will I? Ridiculous. Perfectly good friendship opportunity, and I tossed it right in the trash. Good going, _Anthony_.”

He raised his head from the steering wheel and let it crash back down again heavily. In doing so, he accidentally made contact with the horn, which let out an incredibly loud _HONK_ that made Crowley nearly jump out of his skin.

“_Shit_,” Crowley swore, and he quickly put his key in the ignition and drove away before Aziraphale had the chance to come back to the front door and ask what was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is literally just aziraphale and crowley trying to convince each other that they deserve kindness. it's good and it's pure. am i projecting my own issues onto this fic? maybe.
> 
> also good god this chapter took so long for me to write! idk why that is, but from now on i'm gonna try to update more frequently! thanks for sticking with me <3
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ spaceface16.


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